


bandaged dolls bleeding out

by aldonza



Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anglo-Persian War, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Torture, Force-Feeding, Gen, Hurt Erik (Phantom of the Opera), Injury Recovery, Lots, Major Character Injury, Pharoga overtones, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Prisoner of War, Whipping, Whump, and LOTS of hurt!Erik, rosy hours, the little Sultana tries to make it better but makes it worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21861682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: The Shah-in-Shah's famed angel of death is captured after an assignment gone wrong. While Erik suffers at enemy hands, the little Sultana frets over her missing toy and the daroga of Mazandaran waits for the magician's return. Even if he has to guarantee it himself.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574986
Comments: 20
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still going to finish "Aroos" (it's not on hiatus or anything!), but this is a plot bunny that wouldn't go away. This is going to be part of a short series of interconnected stories, but it can be read on its own. I'm pretty excited to publish it, and I hope it's to your liking!
> 
> Quick notes: I use "Nadir" for simplicity's sake, but this is a mix of Leroux and my own characterizations. This is an AU that completely veers away from canon, but I hope you'll enjoy it regardless. And yes, I know the daroga's servant is Darius- I'm using someone named "Abed" for a reason (irrelevant right now, but necessary for the story as a whole; Darius will enter the series eventually!).
> 
> Warning: Descriptions of torture/gore, very hurt!Erik

Abed watched his master pace back and forth, pausing every so often to curse the magician under his breath. From his waistband, the servant pulled out his most recent trinket, its little silver chain coiling betwixt his fingers. The watch flipped open. He counted the ticks that followed each needle, eyes drawn to the numerals etched atop expert paint. At first he’d thought it a trick of the eye but the pattern under the glass indeed changed by the hour, as if ordained by the spinning of those minutes. 

“What time is it, Abed?” the master asked.

“Two.”

“If Erik’s not back within the hour, we’ll eat this cake ourselves.”

The pocket watch had been a gift from Erik, crafted just for the daroga’s faithful servant. At first, Abed had wondered if the magician had some favor he wished to collect, or rather, his master had wondered. But Erik never asked for anything in return, though he did expect the servant to praise his gift, for in his words, it was a timekeeper “even the richest of western nobles did not have.”

“Then why not give it to my master?” Abed had asked him, to which the magician replied, “It’d be a waste on someone so boring.” 

And of course, the daroga responded, “I’m standing right here, Erik!”

Abed smiled with some reservation. Those had been simpler days. The court was tense now, and that tension rooted itself in every strand of gray peeking through his master’s black hair. And Erik, he knew bore the brunt of such burden. He knew of the Shah’s orders and the little Sultana’s violent whims, all of which Erik unquestioningly followed. The man’s hands were stained with blood, and there was little the daroga could do about it. 

Even so, master and servant could not bring themselves to hate the magician. Perhaps because they knew all three were entangled in the same sins- the daroga for subjecting Erik to the Persian court, Erik for carrying out each of its whims, and Abed for serving both men. But it was a subject neither his master nor Erik ever touched upon.

“Damn that wretch of an Erik,” the daroga muttered again.

He looked to the cake that Abed had so painstakingly baked and frosted. It lay on the dining table, where it had sat since ten, layered with vanilla and marzipan. Truth be told, Abed had been anxious about how it would be received. He was no great chef and he had scrambled through every cookbook and recipe he could find when the daroga instructed him to make a “delicate French cake.” Then the master himself had come in and decorated the words with surprisingly adept lettering: joyeux anniversaire. 

A pot of lemon tea, Erik’s favorite, stood by it, still resting on the burner. And sitting between was a parcel bundled with paper and twine. Abed had more than an inkling of how nervous the daroga had been over his choice of gift. His master was a collected man, but he was still a proud nobleman and though he denied it, Abed knew he cared especially for the magician’s opinion. Then, of course, it vexed the master greatly that Erik had yet to appear and judge his present.

“Master, perhaps Erik is just delayed,” the servant offered.

“Delayed by what?”

“Weather? Or perhaps he chose to retire early. You know as well as I that he’s been… overworked.”

“I specifically told him to come to our home as soon as he returned.”

“Did he agree?”

“His words were, ‘If it shuts you up, you great booby.’”

Abed held in his laugh. That nickname never failed to tickle something within him, perhaps because his master was such a _serious_ man. He could picture the exchange in his head easily enough; the daroga standing next to Erik, insisting that he visit and the Frenchman grinning behind that eerie mask as he prepared another jab to the master’s ego. 

“That’s Erik’s way of saying he’ll appear,” Abed translated.

The daroga pressed his hand to the table.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he said, “perhaps he’d find this embarrassing. You never know with that bastard.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, master, I don’t think Erik gets… gifts like this often.”

“No. He told me himself. The last time he tried to celebrate his birth, he asked his mother for a kiss.”

“How long ago was that?”

“When he was a boy.” A look of pity passed those green eyes. “His mother refused.”

And Abed did not blame her. Neither he nor the master were quite used to the magician’s face, and Abed admitted that the sight struck him with a terrible fear that’d yet to leave. But so long as the mask was on, the Frenchman was simply their Erik, nothing more or less.

But it must have been quite painful for a child. Something between guilt and sorrow crossed his heart. _What a poor, unhappy child,_ he thought. He assumed the master felt the same thing because at breakfast, the daroga had told him quite suddenly that they were to celebrate Erik’s birthday in the evening. Abed had been confused, but he’d agreed to the idea. Heaven knew they all needed something to look forward to. 

And as far as the master knew, Erik was not even supposed to depart so unexpectedly. The unforeseen order had come from the Shah-in-Shah, likely prompted by the vizier. There had been a new development in the war and it was not in the nation’s favor. And the Shah seemed convinced that Erik would be the one to sway the tide. The daroga was only convinced that Erik would return that evening, as the Frenchman himself had estimated.

“I’m sure he’ll be grateful for your surprise,” Abed said. “You didn’t tell him what the visit was for, did you master?”

“No. I wanted to shock him for a change.” The daroga sighed. “But it seems he’s bested us again. Forget what I said about the cake. We’ll bring it to him tomorrow.”

“As you wish, master.”

And then, ignoring Abed completely, the daroga poured himself a cup of tea. Swishing the cup, he frowned, brow creasing as he looked inside. 

“Abed, did he look all right to you the last time we saw him?”

“He seemed in good health.”

Glancing at the cake, the daroga brought the cup to his lips, the steam furling around his mouth. “Three days. They only gave him three days, Abed. That’s not enough time to recover from those injuries.”

“I was trying not to think about it, master.”

Abed winced, recollecting the Sultana’s orders. She had ordered four of the magician’s fingers broken, two from each hand. And Erik had complied. And even in that state, Erik had still entered the execution ring and triumphed. Perhaps it was proof that he truly was the angel of death, more demon than man. But for the very first time, his own blood had been shed in the arena. A harsh scrape crawled across the ribs. And his blood was as red as any other man’s.

But instead of collapsing, he had thrust off that mask and grinned into the crowd. And it seemed that only the daroga doubted his immortality.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Abed said in an effort to quell the master’s worries, “he’s... Erik.”

The daroga chuckled then. “That’s quite true. He’ll be angry if I doubt his abilities. And the last thing we need is another one of his babyish tantrums.”

Abed nodded, and looking down, saw that the watch ticked past three.

“Master, may I ask you something?”

“Please.”

“Is it really his birthday?”

“Of course not! He forgot the date, so it might as well be today.”

* * *

An hour past sunrise, Abed burst into the master’s bedroom, eyes alight with panic. As the daroga roused from his slumber, he said- or rather growled, “Abed, what is the meaning of this?”

“Master, look!”

Abed thrust the news onto the master’s bed with a loud snap, ink and paper stark against the red coverlet. The daroga rubbed his eyes, and as his gaze trailed over the headline, immediately drained of all color.

> _Shah-in-Shah’s Angel of Death Captured in Mohammerah_
> 
> _:King of Persia’s ‘Trapdoor Lover’ Bested By Crown’s Troops_
> 
> _Long thought to be a gruesome rumour, the man known as Shah Nasseridin’s Angel of Death exists in the flesh. The Shah-in-Shah’s famed assassin was apprehended Tuesday morning-- estimated between three and four hours past midnight-- in Mohammerah, the capital of Persia’s Khuzestan Province, after a failed attempt on Captain Haig’s life en route to the Shatt Al Arab. The details of his capture are relayed as follows:_

“What?” the master muttered, disbelief clearing all traces of sleep from his eyes. “Abed, did you read this?”

“Only the top. I- I had to bring it to you.” And blushing, the servant added, “I can’t read English… I could only guess some words.”

“Where did it come from?”

“The vizier’s boy was delivering copies. I don’t know how they found it.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“The Shah’s angel of death was captured last night.” He bit his bottom lip. “Was Erik…?”

Almost crushing the paper in his hand, the master skimmed on, nostrils flaring as he said sharply, “There’s no one else it could be. It says he wears a mask to cover a ‘face of nightmares, more fitting for a cadaver than a man.’”

The daroga flipped the page, revealing a ghastly rendition of Erik’s visage. The skin stretched poorly across the skull, failing to cover vein and bone. The eyes were deepset in two sunken sockets of shadow. Barely any lips existed at all- though the artist took care to twist them into a nightmarish grin- and the nose was a shriveled hole of ink. And yet the drawing somehow managed to pale in comparison to the horror of the real thing.

“Master, what else does it say?”

“From what I gather, Erik failed to silence his victim quickly enough. The captain’s men charged into his tent and- damn that bony idiot! I told him to delay this!”

The daroga pointed to a line in the second paragraph. “They shot him three times, none fatal. This journalist calls it a ‘light injury’ and I should imagine Erik lives since they took him alive.”

“Is that all?” Abed asked, panic burning within, “it’s the headline piece.”

“The rest only describes what we already know. What the trapdoor lover does for a living, his methods of torture and murder. The English certainly have an appetite for this kind of thing- they spend a whole page detailing it.”

Pushing the paper aside, the daroga rubbed at his temples. “And there’s quite an emphasis on his being French. They mentioned it five times in one section. Now I feel a headache coming on- even when he’s not here, Erik gives me a migraine!”

“Should I massage you, master?”

The daroga shook his head, and nervously, the servant asked, “What will happen to Erik now? Did it- did it say?”

“He’s been detained for questioning. I doubt they’ll be _kind_ to him.”

An interrogation was inevitable. Abed understood enough to surmise this. But he did not like the grim tone in his master’s last statement. The daroga was certain Erik would be pressed for information- violently- and given the list of crimes he had committed in the Shah’s name, Abed doubted his treatment would be light.

“The English are uncertain on what to do next. His execution is an option, but they won’t proceed until it’s decided who he belongs to, Persia or France.”

“The Shah will negotiate for his freedom,” Abed said, unsure who he was trying to convince. “Erik is his best soldier, his-”

“Toy,” the daroga finished, words dry. “Erik is a toy.”

His hand lingered by the article’s final paragraph, one that Abed glimpsed but could not read:

> _-the Shah’s opponents are calling for the ‘Angel of Death’ to be publicly humiliated and executed. Should there be no further developments, he may very well meet such a fate._

* * *

Erik awoke to a lantern floating before his eyes, its light glowing sharply in the dark. And it spurred the dull throb in his head, as if some ache had took hold of his skull and rooted itself into the brain. He failed to register where he was or why he was in such a position, only that it was deathly cold and the floor was made of grass and dirt. A wall of fabric loomed above him. Head swimming, he concluded that he was in a tent.

Then it occurred to him that he was lying on his side, stripped of all clothing and naked before the night chill. Instinctively, his hand flew to his face, broken fingers brushing bumpy flesh before his wrist yanked itself back. Shoulder smashing soil, he bit back a groan and stared at the cause. Manacles clung to his hands, looking much too large compared to his thin wrists, and their chains lead to a wooden post a foot away. There was not much room to maneuver.

He saw no chains around his legs. And still struggling to understand where on Earth he was, Erik stood, only to collapse from a sharp sting in his right calf. Then, doubling over, he vomited, the smell of sick coating itself against his flesh. And all he could think in the haze was, _Where is the mask?_

“You’re a real ugly fellow, aren’t you?”

That voice was not his own. Erik looked up. A man had been holding the lantern, his features decidedly European and tanned from days under the sun. He was clean-shaven, though a sandy mustache curled at the edge of his upper lip, and staring into his gray eyes, Erik noted a spark of disgust. 

“Who are you?” he rasped.

Quirking a brow, the man knelt to his level, a gloved hand coming to wipe the dribble from Erik’s chin. “So you speak English. That makes things easier for all of us, angel.”

Erik snapped his teeth, meaning to bite that hand clean off if he could manage. But the Englishman had pulled away. And yanking Erik forward by the few strands of black atop his head, the man said, “I am Major General Norrson. You’ve been sleeping in my tent for quite a while, and as your host, I think it’s appropriate to ask a few questions of you.”

Norrson dropped his head, and Erik hit the ground with a hiss. The Englishman’s face was familiar. He tried to remember the night before; he had tailed the captain as instructed and when the punjab appeared, his bandaged fingers had been unable to keep it in place. Haig elbowed him in the chest, buying just enough time for those men to storm in. And-

Erik pulled himself up. The bullets had clipped him, he remembered. As Norrson walked to the table behind, Erik leaned against the post, surveying the damage to his body. The trickle of red in his eyes told him someone had indeed smashed him in the head soon after. The gauze around his chest was still in place, though it was now colored pink. He looked down. A hole sat on his left thigh, crudely sewn shut despite the blood still struggling to seep through. A similar wound rested upon his right leg, just as inexpertly stitched.

And gaze shifting, he saw another set of stitches on his right shoulder, no doubt where the last bullet had landed. 

“Now, I won’t ask who sent you. I know it was the Persians.”

Norrson appeared before him again, sizing him up as if inspecting an animal for slaughter. He spun a pair of shears in his hand. He touched a tangle of scars that splashed from the torso down, tracing the skin with a cold caress.

“You’ve had a rough time of it,” he said, “I can tell you’ve taken hits before. Is that right?”

Erik watched him warily. He knew that question needed no answer. And he was starting to piece together what had transpired. He’d failed his mission and the British had taken him alive. Now, it seemed, they wanted information only he could provide.

“My men were rather terrified of your death’s head,” Norrson told him, “but not I. Defects of nature are not much to be afraid of. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Again, Erik declined to speak. But he doubted the Englishman expected a reply. Instead, the major pressed the shears to that wide strip of gauze and cut. Watching the bandage come apart, Norrson asked, “Does the Shah pay you well?”

The blades poked at the stitched gash across his ribs. Norrson expected an answer now. 

“How should I know?” Erik said, a grin spreading from ear to ear.

Norrson’s face did not betray any signs of fear, but for a moment, his eyes flickered. He had been intimidated, and it was a look Erik knew all too well. But the victory was short-lived when he found himself grinding his teeth against the pain that followed.

The shears snipped his stitches bit by bit until the gash bled anew. 

“You can cooperate and I’ll endeavor to make you comfortable,” Norrson said, “water, food, a blanket even. But if you want to play games-”

He brought the shears to the sewed shoulder wound, and again, snipped it open. The blood rolled down in steady beads. 

“I can make a real game of it,” the Englishman concluded.

Erik felt the shears come to rest under his chin, a dot of blood drawn by the cold tip. Then Norrson brought the tool down, settling the point against the other man’s collarbone. And without warning, he pressed it in, dragging the blades until they crossed that chest and dipped along the torso below. The slice only stopped once Norrson reached the edge of his prisoner’s hips.

Trapped in sweat, Erik released his breaths in short heaves, again seeing blurs as Norrson muttered, “Tell me, would castration please you?”

And Erik laughed, a distorted cackle that ended in a choke of pain. “No woman would want my seed anyway.”

A smile tugged at Norrson’s lips, more of a grudging wince than genuine mirth. The shears dug into the thigh next, then the calf, enabling the bullet wounds to bleed on. Erik felt the blood pool around his leg. He expected to pass out soon, from the ache in his head if not the steady loss of blood. As if sensing the very same thing, Norrson dealt him a sharp clout. Ears ringing, Erik steadied himself as Norrson struck him again.

“What was your superior’s plan?” the major asked harshly, wrenching a chained wrist upwards.

_“Je ne sais pas.”_

Erik ignored the sting of Norrson’s shears against his palm, its edge cutting into already bruised flesh. 

“You’re strangely loyal to a country not your own,” the major mused, “we’ll see how long that can last. Remember, one word from you and we can end this torture.”

He set the bloodied shears down. The gloves slipped off.

“Then again, you’re no stranger to torture. How many men have you condemned to such a fate in the Shah’s name?”

How many men must die, the daroga had once asked him. But most of them did not die in the Shah’s name. They died in the Sultana’s. And Erik pushed it to the very back of his mind. What did he care what happened to those vagrants? What did he care what happened to convicts already scheduled to die? If anything, they should thank him for making it quick and creative.

Do you really believe that? Nadir’s voice asked again. What did he believe? Did he believe in anything?

Erik cried out, thrown from that tangent by his own shock of pain. Norrson had stuck two fingers into the shoulder wound, fore and index. The Englishman stretched, thumb coming to hold the flesh in place. Erik felt the wound open more, Norrson pushing in until blood trickled from his knuckles down. 

“Will you talk now?”

There was blood in his mouth. He’d bit his lip until skin broke. 

“Why not?”

Norrson continued to dig in, nails sinking into the torn tissue within as that wound stretched to twice its size. 

“Help me understand. Why does Persia have your loyalty?”

“My secrets are my own,” Erik managed to snarl out.

He felt a moment of blessed relief when Norrson removed his digits, both slick with red. Then the pain again set in, setting his shoulder alight with agony. Norrson’s fingers touched Erik’s face, rubbing the blood off against a sallow cheek.

“I didn’t ask about your secrets. I asked about the Shah’s.”

A booted foot stomped him in the abdomen, and before Erik could recover the wind he lost, Norrson kicked him again. Again. Again.

And again.

* * *

The daroga had sent him to feed the cats in Erik’s apartment. Since the owner was not home, Abed could not enter. Instead, he left a dish of water and a bowl of treats at the doorway. The master had given him a spare key, but as he suspected, Erik changed the lock so no one but himself could enter and leave. Such behavior was very fitting for the magician.

There was no cat in particular to look out for, but Abed knew which ones the Frenchman was particularly fond of. There was a Siamese with sky blue eyes and a fluffy Persian with a bedazzled collar. Who they really belonged to, Abed had no idea. And then there were the strays, the wandering kittens and mangy felines that Erik loved to pet and feed in his sparse free time.

He supposed the master did not wish to accompany him because he could not stand the sight of the empty apartment. Or as Erik would say, “You hate cats because they hate you, daroga.” Then he’d laugh as he held a kitten to the master’s grumbling face.

“Look at the resemblance!” Erik once said.

“We look nothing alike!” the daroga argued, but his eyes were indeed the same color as that cat’s.

Abed smiled, dismissing the memory as another gone by, though it had only happened a few weeks prior. They had no news of Erik. Two days had passed, and the master spent every breath fighting for the magician’s return. The Sultana stood by the daroga’s word, but it seemed that the vizier had more sway over the Shah himself.

“It may be in our interest to let him die,” the man had argued, “who knows how much he’s betrayed already. Can we risk having him return a spy?”

The Sultana begged and pleaded for her husband to hear the daroga instead. It almost looked as if she cared for the magician’s wellbeing. But Abed knew better. Everyone in court did. 

Erik was a toy. And princesses hated losing toys.

* * *

Norrson removed the iron rod from his thigh. Erik lay gasping at the major’s feet, wounds newly cauterized and filling their tent with the stench of burnt flesh. How long the night had gone on, he failed to remember. But it was daylight now. He had soiled himself some time in between and someone had given him water regardless of what the major ordered.

All he recalled were the Englishman’s blows, fists and feet leaving marks of blue and black upon his skin. Norrson dragged him up by the windpipe. His grip was impressive, or perhaps the angel of death was weak. 

Erik could no longer tell the difference.

“There are many men, powerful men, calling for your death. We are civilized- we could make it swift. But what they want is a spectacle.”

The chains rattled as Norrson turned him around, roughly shoving him against the post and lashing him down with a cord of new rope. Erik stood straight, forcing that spine to its full height as he braced against the pain to come. 

“Imagine _this_. But in front of a crowd, all jeering as you die. Is that how you want to die?”

“Crowds have heckled me all my life,” the prisoner answered, “unfortunately, it makes no difference to me.” 

A whip cracked against his back, strips of flesh flying off as one blow tripled and doubled back. Teeth grit, Erik glanced behind, gaze falling on the cat o’ nine in Norrson’s grip. It came down again, and he grudgingly sagged, momentarily stunned with pain. He was aware of the blood seeping out, hot and rapid as it broke from his torn flesh.

“How about something simpler,” Norrson said, “tell me your full name and I’ll put this thing away.”

Erik released a laugh, a distorted chortle that no doubt unsettled his host. “Ah, ah, I have no name!”

A shot of anger passed through the major’s eyes. And then the whip’s tails were upon damaged skin again, shredding muscle and slicing any spot they touched. Erik felt the tails rip past arm and leg and coil back, leaving vines of blood and nothing else. He lost count of each crack by the time Norrson dropped the weapon with a heavy pant.

Erik swallowed the blood from his tongue, having bitten in so long that he near tore it off. Norrson released his bonds. As the prisoner fell, the major caught him and flipped him around. And facing that whip, Erik shuddered.

“One more chance,” Norrson warned, “tell me your name.”

“I can’t,” Erik said with a sheepish grin.

The tails sliced into his chest, trailing flesh from each rib. And this time, he could not resist screaming aloud.

* * *

They didn’t know what to do with the cake. If it sat any longer, it would surely spoil. But the daroga made no mention of it. He simply let it rest on the table, covered with a round net.

“I can bake another one when he returns,” Abed told the master, “this one can’t last another day.”

And mouth still set in a grim frown, the daroga shook his head.

“It needs to,” he said.

* * *

Norrson had gone and an older man took his place, thinner, paler, cruler. Erik sat, the wooden post all that kept him from falling face down. They had returned his mask, but it clung askew thanks to his swollen face. No one had come to close his wounds. He could still hear the blood dribbling, his skin soaked in crimson and left to fester in the air. 

The new Englishman took his hand, staring at the broken fingers with a touch of pity.

“Forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he said softly.

Erik could tell he meant it. 

“Will you comply now?”

Which meant it would hurt.

He shook his head.

And he felt the tweezers wrench the nail off his thumb. The shock registered before the pain, but Erik’s mind had wandered elsewhere. Briefly, he wondered what surprise the daroga had in store for him. Knowing that boring fart, it must have been some pretentious book. 

* * *

Abed disposed of the cake without so much as a taste. The daroga refused to take a bite and the servant felt it his duty to emulate his master’s resolve. 

He wondered how Erik was faring. He’d surely laugh if he saw how his absence had affected the daroga. Abed’s master could barely sleep or eat. All his energy was devoted towards arguing with the vizier. 

General consensus was that the magician would not survive the interrogation and that it would be prudent to alter the army’s strategy. Erik had never been privy to the military’s plans, but to err on the side of caution, the court would assume he disclosed information against the empire.

“You know where his loyalties lie,” the daroga had tried to say, “Erik would sooner die than betray his majesty.”

“Are you so sure?” the vizier retorted, “pain can change a man. He never hailed from Persia in the first place. What does he have to gain in taking our secrets to the grave?”

Then having hidden herself behind a screen, the Sultana had screeched, “You’ll speak no ill of him!”

And from what the other servants told Abed, the meeting devolved into chaos from there.

* * *

When Norrson returned, it was to take supper in front of him. Too sore to move, Erik leaned against the post, staining the wood red as he watched the Englishman eat. Norrson took water from his canteen. Then he lifted the mask and pressed it to Erik’s lips. When the prisoner refused, Norrson forced it down.

Choking, Erik sputtered as Norrson set his meal aside.

“I never expected you to last this long,” the major said, “you really are a right freak, aren’t you?”

He retrieved a hammer from the table, and approaching, added, “Don’t give me that look. You had a reputation even before Persia, didn’t you- living corpse?”

Once Erik finished coughing up the rest of that water, Norrson shoved him on his back with a rough kick. The major stooped by him, eyeing that ravaged body for anywhere to strike.

“So how about this. I’ve grown sick of doing you injury,” Norrson said, “if you tell me how you made that ‘torture chamber’ you’re so famous for, we can stop this now.”

“I- told you,” the prisoner croaked, voice unrecognizable to his own ears, “my secrets… are my own.”

Norrson slammed the hammer on his chest, and Erik gasped when he heard the resounding crack of a shattered rib. 

“You’re so skinny it makes this easier than it should be. So will you speak, or should we start by smashing these little ribs?”

He spat in Norrson’s face. And the hammer came down five, six times, crushing half his rib cage along with each blow. 

* * *

The gift stayed wrapped. Abed caught his master cradling it every now and then before he retired for the night. 

“He’ll come back, master,” he told the daroga whenever he could, “he promised.”

“It’s not up to him,” the master said, “not this time.”

“Erik is a lot of things and I’ll be the first to admit his manners are lacking, but he’s not one to break a promise.”

And softer, Abed said, “Have faith, master.”

* * *

Erik was unsure if he was dead or alive or how long he’d spent chained to the bloodied post. He had never had a keen sense of smell, but he knew he had been stuck with the odor of copper, sweat, and urine for days on end. When he had last ingested water or food, when infection and fever had set in-- of these, he had no inkling. He was only aware of a perpetual sense of pain and Norrson’s increasingly incensed voice.

Perhaps deeming him too frail to move, Norrson and his men unchained him at last. And dragging by the ankles, a soldier had pulled him out of that tent, the sting of fresh air both thrilling and wretched at once. He felt rocks scrape against the slashes upon his back, digging into what little clean skin he had left and leaving him begging for breath.

Norrson’s men hauled him upright, and as his vision cleared, Erik saw the path of broken glass lying ahead, transparent train tracks of jagged edges and sharp pieces.

“Can you walk?” the major asked.

The hands let go, and Erik buckled. Climbing to his feet, he hissed aloud, flayed soles harsh against ground.

“Now tell me, how did you build the Shah’s chamber of mirrors? You’re dying. And I’m offering you a final chance at living.”

He said nothing, fixing Norrson with a weak glare. The major grabbed his wrist, itself chafed and rubbed raw. Gesturing towards the glass, Norrson stepped forward. Erik felt himself tugged along, bare feet pressing over shards as he was forced to walk on wobbling legs. A trail of blood outlined each burning step. And halfway through, he could no longer withstand the pain.

Erik collapsed, crashing into that sea of glass, and as the blood gathered beneath, he wondered if he owed the daroga an apology. He would not return to Mazandaran and he had long since missed their appointment. For the briefest of seconds, he wished he could live, if simply to see the Persian one last time.

* * *

This time, it was the master who shook him awake. Sitting up with a jolt, Abed almost screamed when he saw the frenzied look upon the daroga’s face.

“Master, what-”

“Get dressed, Abed. As plainly as possible.”

“Why-”

“We’re going to Mohammerah. The Sultana approved.”

“But does the Shah-”

The master smiled, uncharacteristically harsh. “I couldn’t care less.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter this time, but I hope you enjoy this chapter regardless!
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of torture/gore, force feeding

Erik awoke to the sensation of steel pressed against his head. Bleary, he tried to make sense of what the offending object was. A pistol. Norrson’s familiar voice faded in and out of his ears, but Erik could no longer string one word with the next. He was only aware of the fire in his nerves and the sluggishness of his body. His back was propped forward by the wooden post he’d become so well-acquainted with over the past days and nights. But Norrson saw it fit to unchain him. Both arms were tied back with knotted rope instead, the cords binding his hands together as the limbs were forced to hug wood from behind.

The wick of a candle touched his mangled chest, and dazed, he watched the flame leave a black burn. The soldier squatting by Norrson’s side lifted the candle again and touched the flame to their captive’s bloodied head, dripping wax onto that thin scalp. Erik felt the sting, but could not find the energy to protest.

He heard Norrson say the words “Shah” and “Kabir” before the major’s voice faded into a sharp buzz. As hot wax dripped into the lacerations crossing his torso, he wondered if Norrson had ordered the bullet wounds opened and stitched again. He was vaguely impressed that the Englishman had managed to keep him alive for this long, or perhaps Erik lacked the good sense to die. 

Glass littered the dirt around him, stained with red and plucked directly out of his tattered flesh. The glass in his soles had not been removed, a reminder that Norrson’s mercy only extended so far. 

The pistol whipped him in the head, a crack resounding from a damaged cheekbone. It came down again, catching him in the throat, and as he choked, Norrson stuck the gun’s tip through his bleeding mouth.

“I’m begging you,” the major said, “give me one reason, just one not to pull the trigger.”

Erik had no reason.

And seeing the major now, he was somewhat humbled by how worn and tired the Englishman appeared. 

Now that he thought about it, Erik did have a reason. He had to meet the daroga for evening tea or whatever it was that great booby wanted. Perhaps Nadir wished to chastise him for something or the other. He wondered who Nadir would nag once he was gone.

Norrson removed the gun, and Erik doubled over gasping.

“Let me change our game then,” the major hissed, “you give me one reason _to_ kill you or I’ll make sure you suffer for the rest of your days.”

Making good on his word, the Englishman kicked him in the cracked ribs before stinting the incoming cry with a blow to the mouth. Norrson crushed his torso with a harsh foot and said, “Dinner.”

Vision overcome with black, Erik felt himself pulled up by the windpipe, another set of rough hands forcing him to sit up. Ahead, Norrson’s teeth ripped a chunk of bread apart. Chewing furiously, he stepped forward before abruptly sticking his left thumb between the prisoner’s lips. He spat a mouthful of mashed bread into his right hand, and prying Erik’s mouth open, shoved the food in.

Instinctively, Erik coughed, gagging until he hurled the bread out, only for Norrson’s hand to force it back down. The major clamped his captive’s mouth shut, and ignoring the sputters and wheezes, refused to relent until the bread had gone down. 

* * *

Abed had estimated a twelve-day journey to Mohammerah. The master made it in ten, having secured the royal stable’s fastest horses. Abed was unsure if the Shah-in-Shah was aware, and he had little doubt that the court would be in an uproar when it found out what the daroga had done. But there was little he could do besides pray that the Sultana’s protection would extend until their return.

The other option was to leave Erik with the English, but Abed found he couldn’t do that in good conscience. The magician may have been an enigma, but he was a dear friend nonetheless, a revelation the servant found himself having quite often these days.

And then there was the fact that the daroga refused to leave Erik to die. The master treated this task with a burning fervor that Abed had never seen. He rarely spoke during their journey, and if not for the servant’s prompting, would have certainly forgotten to eat or drink. He only allowed an hour of sleep per night, much to the chagrin of the others in their party, namely the four underlings they’d taken to guard the Sultana’s “gift” to the English.

As far as Abed knew, they didn’t have much time in the end. The Sultana heard that heavy damage had been done to her favorite doll, and this only spurred the daroga to ride on.

For the master’s sake, Abed prayed that Erik was alive. And for all their sakes, he prayed that the Sultana would not be bored with her doll should the magician’s injuries be too severe.

* * *

They cut him down at dawn. Erik fell with a thump, tasting dirt and blood as he prepared himself for the blows to come. They never did. Grabbing him above the elbows, Norrson’s men held him up and dragged him towards the entrance of that tent. Head lolling, he blinked against the sunlight, one eye swollen shut. They were going to kill him, he was sure of it. 

Perhaps he really would die a spectacle, as Norrson had promised. The living corpse’s final show, shot through the head as the crowds cheered his death. No, that was too merciful. Perhaps he would be skinned alive instead. But unfortunately for Norrson, Erik could not scream even if he wanted to. He could barely register the sound of his own breaths, let alone a groan.

_Speak of the devil._

He collapsed at Norrson’s boots, unceremoniously dropped before the major.

“I’m a man of my word,” he heard the Englishman say, “you can have him on one condition.”

The reply was heavily accented, its speaker evidently unused to the English language. 

“What?”

But that voice- familiar, deep, and vaguely patronizing- Erik knew. Impossible. The fevers had reached his brain, he was sure.

“He comes to you on his own.”

 _He_ could not possibly be here now. Erik was certain. It couldn’t be.

“You…” The voice sounded so much alike. 

“Come again?”

“I accept.” But it could not be. 

Gray eyes looked down. Erik glanced upwards, Norrson staring at him like so many used to…

The major delivered a sharp kick to his side. Wincing, Erik coughed as Norrson ordered, “Get up!”

Could he even get up? What remained of his nails dug into dust, the dirt clinging to blood as his body screamed for respite. The major kicked him once more in the ribs. He crawled forward, hands forcing the rest of him to follow, every torn and broken piece struggling to move through weeping blood. Then his gaze lifted-

It was not gray he saw, but jade.

The daroga of Mazandaran stood in the distance, his face a blur of black hair and vibrant green. He was an illusion, a trick of a mirror. _Daroga_ , he almost heard himself say, _why did you come?_

The illusion stepped forward, and Norrson cried, “No! _He_ comes to you. That was our agreement.”

_Daroga, why did you come?_

_You wretched fool!_

_You great booby!_

_You insufferable-_

He imagined Nadir in his place, Norrson’s shears tearing through his cream-colored garb, and Erik dragged himself on. He was the one thing standing between that idiot and certain death. The English would not lay a hand on the daroga. Could not. He wouldn’t let them. He managed to rise, swaying as he imagined a tirade of obscenities hurled the daroga’s way.

_Go back to Tehran!_

He was still alive. He could buy the slow old fart just enough time to escape. He could. He could.

And the very last of his strength spent, Erik watched the world go dark.

* * *

Perhaps it was a blessing that the little Sultana had neglected to damage the two Englishmen, young soldiers with little in the way of rank. The exchange was hardly a fair one in terms of value, but Nadir meant every word when he said he could care less. He offered Norrson the prisoners- who he considered very fortunate, for they were so close to becoming another pair of the Sultana’s toys- on the condition that he return the angel of death.

It would bode badly for Norrson if he chose to let those two youths die in favor of keeping the Frenchman. Nadir suspected as much and Norrson confirmed that suspicion when he acquiesced, though not without some hesitation disguised as intimidation.

Nadir had suspected Erik’s treatment from the start- and he’d be the first to admit that it was this exact suspicion that drove him to Mohammerah with such frenzy- but he was unprepared to see the results.

He was completely unprepared to see those suspicions confirmed. And worse.

“Bring him out,” Norrson said to his men.

Unsure what to expect, Nadir braced himself. And immediately found himself short of breath when Erik _did_ come out. 

Trembling, he watched them drag the Frenchman out, his naked body coated with dirt and blood, so much crimson that no bit of clean skin showed. Erik had always been thin- as much man as he was skeleton- but he was somehow more emaciated than he had ever been, more bone than anything else. The chest caved in, near broken apart. And as Nadir roamed over every laceration and bruise and burn and lash and stitch and break-

He steadied his hand, willing it away from the pistol at his belt, and that pistol away from Norrson’s heart.

“I’m a man of my word,” the Englishman said, “you can have him, on one condition.”

Eyes still on Erik, that broken form now crumpled at Norrson’s feet, Nadir rasped, “What?”

Erik’s face was turned away, but he could make out the harsh swell on one side, that visage made all the more ghastly by the blood splashed upon it. 

“He comes to you on his own.”

Nadir swallowed, gaze bulging at the words. He looked to the ruins of Erik’s feet. How could he possibly move on his own? He was barely breathing. He was still losing blood. Dying before the daroga’s eyes. And this man had the gall to say-

“You…” _I’ll kill you, Norrson, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll-_

“Come again?”

“I accept.”

Norrson nodded. Then he kicked that prone form, harsh enough to produce an audible crack. And it took Nadir every ounce of self-restraint not to pounce on the major then and there.

“Get up!” the Englishman cried.

Nadir clenched his fists, teeth gritting as he held back his tongue. He couldn’t give Norrson the satisfaction. He was simply an emissary of the Shah, nothing more. He could not betray the devastation eating away at him-

Erik crawled towards him, half blinded and hands broken, dragging himself forward at a snail’s pace, blood steadily trailing with his every move. But he was becoming weaker with each move and breath lost. Nadir remained still, willing himself not to cry the magician’s name. 

Then an amber eye looked up, and as recognition flashed within, the daroga moved, all restraint forgotten- Norrson held up a hand.

“No! _He_ comes to you. That was our agreement.”

Nadir felt his nails draw blood, fists balled so tight he was halfway certain he’d burst into dust on the spot. It was not in the daroga’s nature to feel such bloodlust, but staring at Norrson’s smirking face, he only felt an unsatiated hatred. And it was only the thought of bringing Erik home alive that stayed his hand from murder. He had never condoned murder.

Brief astonishment entered Norrson’s eyes, when for a fraction of second, Erik pulled himself to his feet. He was close now, just inches away from where Nadir stood. 

Their eyes locked. Erik’s mouth parted, as if he was about to speak, again the magician Nadir knew so well. Then he toppled- battered, broken, bloodied- and Nadir rushed forward in time to stop his fall. 

He caught Erik in his arms, shocked at how little he weighed as those wounds soaked his robes red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik's finally free and reunited with Nadir. Maybe things will finally look up for them (or not?)
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Hope that was of interest to you, and feel free to leave kudos/comments!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep saying “this is the end of this!” and then making this longer (rip). Again, hope you enjoy reading and that you don’t mind Darius being replaced with Abed for the time being (I really do have a reason for it!).
> 
> I’ve also noticed that whenever I write pharoga, I tend to make the Daroga kind of, well, *mean* to Erik by default (not that Erik’s done anything to deserve nice words lol but still). This fic became an exercise in seeing how I could make him “nicer” without losing the stoic streak since hardened badass was my first impression of the Daroga and I still haven’t shaken that characterization.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for clicking and hope you like it!

Abed spoke no English, and very little French for that matter, but he believed his sense of body language was enough to discern what had taken place. The Sultana’s guards returned the two Englishmen under his master’s orders, and for their sake, Abed was glad they hadn’t arrived a moment later. The youths were visibly battered, hair long and dirty, and pained with constant hunger. But no further damage touched their persons, and it seemed that Major General Norrson did not complain about their conditions.

“Boy, go help your master,” one of the guards told him, a disagreeable man who’d complained the whole trip.

And he was evidently not pleased with the fact that Abed was cowering in the carriage they’d brought, peeking out from behind its curtains. _Let’s get this over with,_ had been the guards’ mantra upon arrival, and it had been Abed’s too at first. Then as the distance closed between their horses and the fires of the English camp, it dawned on the servant what exactly they were doing.

The Sultana provided four soldiers to act as the daroga’s guards, and it was clear from the start that these men would not be friends. With Abed, they had six men total and only he himself knew how truly inept at fighting he was. Being allowed entry was one matter, but leaving was a whole other subject entirely dependent on the English. The Sultana’s men were outnumbered, outgunned, and acting against the Shah-in-Shah’s wishes (though the daroga reassured Abed many times that the English did not know that).

Perhaps they had only come to die. Perhaps the magician was dead already. But there was no sign of his eviscerated corpse and the exchange with the English major proceeded without issue. For once, Abed was thankful for the daroga’s stoic demeanor.

“Did you hear me, boy!?” the guard snapped. “Go so we may leave.”

Gulping, Abed stepped out, and muttering an apology, entered the camp. He felt surrounded by a sea of faces white as death, though it was preposterous to think the whole army was watching. If anything, only a decent number stood guard. _They are human,_ he told himself, _not horned devils,_ _just men like us, just men in the end._

He stopped short when he saw the daroga, mouth falling into an open _oh_.

The two English soldiers had been returned alive and walking, if not weak. The same could not be said of Erik, if _what_ his master held was even Erik.

The daroga stood, shoulders quaking with light trembles as he pulled at the weight against his chest. And surely that mess of twigs in skin could offer little weight. It was a body lathered with blood, fresh red over old brown, practically embroidered with gaping slashes and split stitches. The face was turned away, lost in the brown of the daroga’s vest, and on that bloodied scalp, Abed made out sparse black hair. 

“Abed, help me,” the master said, tongue far smoother than his burning eyes.

Abed ran to his side, nose contorting as the odor slammed into him from that rancid figure. It was not the smell of rotting flesh or the magician’s familiar trace of death, but rather the living stench of blood, piss, and something charred. Holding his breath, Abed took a limp arm from his master’s grasp and placed it behind his neck. The smell did not seem to bother the master at all.

Then he saw the slow rise and fall of that bony chest, ribs jutting in directions that did not seem right. The body was alive. He watched the daroga shift the head collapsed against him- the face was nothing more than a clutter of blood but no shape poked from where the nose should be.

This was indeed Erik. And he lived, if only by a fraction of breath.

_“He’s loyal.”_

It was only when he spoke that Abed noticed the English major, arms folded behind his back, having been too distracted by the sight of Erik’s broken body. He did not understand the words that left the man’s mouth, but whatever he’d said caused his master to stiffen.

_“Never said a word against your Shah. You ought to give him a hero’s welcome.”_

“Abed, come,” the daroga ordered.

The master moved first, Erik’s head lolling between his shoulder and Abed’s, blood soaking their sleeves as it continued to drip down.

_“Then again, he did get himself caught. So much for the angel of death.”_

The daroga turned, a killing intent in his eyes, and for a moment, Abed thought his master really would attack the Englishman. But all he did was calmly say, _“Please return his mask.”_

 _“I cannot do that.”_ Norrson’s hands moved in front, a bent black shape between his fingers. Between the chipped paint and white cracks, Abed recognized it as what had once been Erik’s mask.

The Englishman waved it before his own face. _“I wish to keep it. Spoils of war, if you will.”_

_“A trophy for your efforts?”_

_“I knew you’d understand.”_

The master’s expression did not change, but Abed noticed him shift, slightly enough to block Erik from Norrson’s view, almost protectively. _“Goodbye, Major Norrson.”_

It was only when they arrived at the carriage, Norrson and his men blips in the distance that Abed realized his legs were shaking. He was in a cold sweat, and finally assured they could leave, he felt a senseless relief wash over himself. But that relief again became anxiety when he looked to the master.

They were alive. But Erik looked every bit the living corpse he’d always been called.

The daroga took Erik’s weight upon himself, stepping into the carriage without a word to Abed. Inside, he placed the magician against an unrolled quilt and folded the edges tight around. And as Abed shut the curtains, the master sat, cradling Erik’s head to his lap, the rest of his wounds now hidden by that stained quilt.

“Let’s go!” the master called.

The horses moved. And they were off.

A moment later, Abed held his head in trembling hands. “Master, we did it,” he said with a breathless smile, “we did it!”

He held his nose, again caught by the stench. 

“We did,” the daroga said, a flat statement.

Then his master’s silent composure broke, all tension released as he started to bitterly weep. 

“Master-”

But the daroga was not looking at him. He was staring down at that bleeding head, brushing the blood and wisps of hair from Erik’s face as he swore at the magician with every curse he knew. “You blackguard of a man, you fool, you fool- you damnable wretch-”

And as he watched the angry tears fall, it occurred to Abed that he should dry the master’s face. He would be displeased if Erik awoke now and laughed at the sight.

* * *

To the guards’ displeasure, they could not leave Mohammerah immediately given Erik’s condition. Abed recalled hearing one say, rather sourly, “The thing’s already half dead. Why bother going all this way and back?” But a glare from the daroga had shushed him. Their party paid to stay at an inn for the night, discreetly and highly for two rooms. The guards slept next door and Abed stayed with his master in theirs. Which was how he found himself sitting beside Erik in bed, sponging blood away with a wet cloth.

“I’m fetching a doctor,” the master had said, as soon as they’d set Erik down.

“I should go-”

“No. You’ve never been here. I’ll be faster.”

“Then what should I do, master?”

“Keep him alive.”

The order given, his master had departed. And Abed realized just how daunting a task that was. Erik was comatose, every breath a miraculous labor, and his skeleton of a body nothing but shivers and wounds. Abed winced. It hurt to even look at him.

Erik may have been called the living corpse, but he’d always been a lively soul in Abed’s eyes. There was a spark about the man, a spirit to the way he spoke and moved that told the servant he was very much alive. And little older than Abed himself. In truth, the servant had grown accustomed to Erik’s chattering voice, notes of honey by his ear or the master’s own. Erik would always be fishing for praise or some reaction from either man, little more than an eager child beside his friends.

Abed removed his pocket watch and set it by the bed. If not for the nature of his work and the distortion of his face, Erik was rather endearing in the servant’s eyes. But as the daroga often said, “Our work is not so pure either, Abed. And because you serve me, do not consider yourself a virtuous man.”

“Master won’t take your death well, Erik,” he told the sleeping man. “He… cares for you very deeply.”

In fact, the master seemed to be the only one who cared for Erik besides the Shah and his Sultana. But the latter attentions were ones Abed felt Erik could do without. It was the little Sultana’s ideas that lead to his present injuries in the first place. 

He supposed the master would return soon. The least he could do, then, was clean the magician’s form, mindful of his cruel wounds. And as he took to the task with several bundled cloths that quickly stained red, Abed realized he was wrong. There was another who cared for Erik’s life.

“I won’t take your death well either,” he mumbled, “you are my friend.”

And when the daroga at last returned with the doctor in tow, both hurrying to Erik’s side, Abed turned away. He prayed.

* * *

According to the doctor, the English had done their best to keep their prisoner alive, though it was evident they did the bare minimum to keep him comfortable. Infection and pain were unavoidable, but they’d stopped Erik from bleeding out multiple times and provided enough nourishment to prevent a quick death. He had however, lasted longer than they expected and one more day (perhaps hour) under Norrson’s treatment would have killed him at last.

The daroga had taken these words in stride, offering the doctor nothing but a nod and “I see” here and there. Abed, on the other hand, had felt rather sick as he listened in. Erik had a seemingly endless list of injuries to overcome, ranging from cracked ribs and bones to bullet holes and burns, most of his flesh already torn apart by an angry lash and splinters of glass. Bruises pressed to his papery skin between each bandage and scab, as if the body itself had been fused to a tapestry of wounds that clung to bleeding bone.

How could anyone recover from this? But the master seemed to have no doubts, or if he did, he refused to share with Abed. 

That first night had been a nightmare of nerves in itself. Once the doctor departed, Abed had been charged with watching the door. The master forced a dagger’s hilt into his hand and told him that it would not be long before someone discovered their whereabouts. 

“But what would they want with us?” he asked.

“To finish Erik off. And us with him.”

“The English _let_ us go, they-”

“We have more to worry about than the English. Take your eyes off the door and all three of us die.”

Abed had asked of the guards next door and the daroga had (to his alarm) dismissed them as a formality. The master believed they only had each other to rely on, and he said it with such finality that Abed had no choice but to believe it. There were two of them and Erik would be indefinitely indisposed. The doctor had bound him in gauze from head to toe, leaving only his eyes and mouth free.

He sat by the doorway, jumping at every little noise as the master tended Erik's bedside. Abed glanced behind every so often, and each time, he was met with the sight of his master stroking the Frenchman’s fevered brow. The daroga wrung cool water from a twisted rag and placed it upon Erik’s head. He did so again and again as he whispered French words to deaf ears. 

Abed understood none of it through his jittery nerves, but he did hear something that could have been, “I’m sorry.”

* * *

Before dawn, the master’s prediction came true. Abed jumped to his feet, only to have the dagger knocked from his hand and himself kicked back by their shrouded assailant. He had just begun to scream when the daroga himself sprang forward, arms closing around the intruder’s waist. They tumbled out the door as the master cried, “Abed, the knife!”

The servant clumsily slid the dagger out, yelping against his own accord when the daroga released the blade and plunged it into his opponent’s hand. As the man howled, he slammed it down to the hilt, soon pinning that hand to the floor. 

When the guards rushed from their room, in varying degrees of disarray, the daroga said, “We have to go. Now.”

They looked to the man on the ground, still writhing in his struggle to escape. One asked, “What should we do?”

The master shut his eyes, regret evident in every feature as he said lowly, “What you must.”

As they slit the man’s throat, Abed returned to Erik’s bedside, already certain he knew what the master’s next order was: “Move him out.”

* * *

It was a thirteen-day journey back to Tehran, one day lost to their stay at the inn and two days equated to the hours spent changing Erik’s dressings. And though Abed yearned for rest, the scare from their last morning in Mohammerah forced his eyes to stay open. The journey also happened to be bumpy, their party having decided to take roads less traveled.

While Abed minded their belongings, the daroga kept Erik’s head upon his lap, pressing himself as far against the carriage window as he could so the bandaged man could stretch. The servant wondered if such a position made his master sore- seeing as the daroga did not move for hours at a time- but it seemed not to be the case. That, or his master was too preoccupied to dwell on it.

In daylight, Abed had grown used to seeing his master absently caress the magician’s face. The daroga would twirl bits of Erik’s thin hair around his fingers, perfectly unaware of what he’d been doing. And Abed thought it best to pay it no mind. 

At noon, the guards would stop for lunch, too tired and tense to converse. Abed stepped out for fresh air during these breaks, but the daroga seemed to have no need for such things. He remained within the carriage, caring for Erik as one would a babe. And when he noticed Abed’s absence, he’d call his name. Then Abed would find himself holding Erik up as the daroga slipped water into his mouth. 

Occasionally, Abed would grind up the food they’d brought and spoon bits between the magician’s lips. But by the fifth day, he would hardly be shocked if the daroga himself chose to chew Erik’s food and kiss it down his throat. The master certainly acted like Erik was an egg in his nest ever since they’d left the English camp.

Their carriage paused once at sunset and once before twilight, both intervals the daroga needed to change Erik’s gauze. Abed had felt sickly when he aided during the first day and he still did on the tenth. They’d washed the worst of the stench away, but the smell of blood still remained strong and the sight of breaking stitches- like red bugs crawling out from cages of black- was enough to send Abed half-fainting.

His wounds jolted with each step over uneven terrain, and by nightfall, those bandages stained pink, blood eagerly flowing against their best efforts.

It was only fortunate for Erik, then, that he had managed to sleep through twelve days with little interruption. He would stir briefly every few hours, too ill to do anything save twitch in the daroga’s grip. Amber eyes would flick open, glassy and scared. And each time, the master attempted to soothe him with his native tongue.

Abed had little doubt that Erik suffered from nightmares, even before this whole ordeal. For all he knew, Erik was still unaware that Norrson had let him go and was perhaps reacting to whatever sensation he’d come to expect from the Englishman. Abed remembered the Englishman’s face- it was not a memorable face by any means, as average as a westerner came. But there was a sharpness in his eyes, a cold glint that was not unlike what he’d seen in the Sultana’s gaze.

Except Norrson’s had been controlled, and all the court knew their Sultana could never hide much for long. Abed did not know which was worse. And then there was Erik himself. He knew what sins and twisted labors that mind could manage, for Erik’s was not a normal mind. No ordinary man could indulge in pain and death in the way he had. And still, Abed could not shake the master’s words whenever he entertained these thoughts- s _omeone like him knows nothing of goodness, but_ _we have no need to hate an animal that does not know right from wrong._ Back then, the master did think of the magician as more monster than man.

And somewhere along the line, his condemnation changed- _he does not do these things because he enjoys doing wrong, Abed, but because he is too innocent to question why they are wrong. And I suppose ignorance is bliss._

It was not Abed’s place to comment on any of the daroga’s words. All he knew was that the Sultana enjoyed breaking her toys bit by bit until they could no longer work. And then she’d replace them with something new. Erik was no exception, but perhaps she would have a shred of mercy for him.

Because in the end, the Sultana missed her chance to take the toy apart. In her employ, Erik still had reign to sing and dance. Norrson had been the one to shatter him until he could not talk, until he could barely move and hardly breathe.

The thirteenth day passed.

* * *

They arrived at the palace in the dead of night, ushered into the courtyard by a group of anxious servants. Abed helped the master carry Erik out the carriage and onto a litter that the Sultana had sent. After he draped a blanket over the magician’s sleeping form, the daroga gestured for the servants to move. They picked the litter up and followed the master’s lead. By the daroga’s side, Abed looked left and right, half expecting another assassin to jump them then and there. They had finally made it home, but he somehow felt just as nervous as he’d been at the English camp. 

The master guided their group to his apartments, guards and all. Once they moved Erik in, the daroga sent Abed out. The servant returned with the court physician behind, a dainty figure at his heels, her face wrapped in silk (“She can help,” was all the doctor offered). 

The others were gone by the time Abed found their guest room. Only a single guard remained by the front door, none too pleased. The physician approached Erik first, taking a moment to look over the stained dressings. Then his assistant fell to her knees beside his bed. 

“Oh, oh!” she cried, lifting a bandaged hand, “what did they do to you!?”

Abed knew that voice. It had the face to match such a dulcet cry, as pretty as a glowing bride. He exchanged a look with the master as they both blanched. The silken veil fell, and sobbing, the little Sultana desperately stroked her magician’s face. Her black hair bobbed, delicate features scrunched in sorrow while long lashes blinked.

“Erik! Erik! How could you let them do this?”

She wept, gentle tears wetting his gauze as she bemoaned his fate. “My poor Erik, I won’t let you die. My poor magician, we shall make you well again.”

The Sultana was beside herself with grief, Erik’s hand crushed between her palms as she tried to will him better through those tearful pleas. Even weeping, she was beautiful, so sincere that for a moment, Abed thought her as loving as she appeared.

The daroga looked to him, as if trying to say, _Abed, she means every word._ The servant gulped. That notion terrified him beyond all else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave kudos/comments. Hope Abed's a decent substitute for Darius. I love the little Sultana so much and have a lot of plans for her in this series *winks*
> 
> And I promise that there will be actual comfort in the final(?) chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished the first part of this series! In terms of phic, this might be the oddest thing I've ever written (yet) but I'm glad I did it. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the final chapter.
> 
> Warning: comfort finally comes in this one, but there's still quite a bit of hurt

_Blood poured from his shriveled nose, or lack thereof, as he gagged on the crimson flushing in and out. It rushed between loose teeth and dripped down his throat, leaving him no choice but to cough it all up. As he choked, Erik nearly forgot the fists pounding down. Until he felt a cheekbone crack._

_The man above was a blur of grey cloth and dark hair, knees pressed against the hollow of the captive’s stomach as he kept him pinned. He landed the last blows, popping blood from the man beneath. Erik knew he could no longer groan, having spent that strength long ago._

_The weight above him shifted._

_“I didn’t say you could stop,” Norrson said from a chair nearby. He crossed his legs._

_“But- I’ll kill him,” that poor soldier said, hesitant as he stared at his bloodied cuffs. His knuckles were slick with red and Erik wondered if all this blood had managed to cover the horror of his face._

_“Well, that’s up to our friend, isn’t it?” Then to Erik, he asked, “How do you feel about an easier question- why did the Shah hire you?”_

_A fist smashed into his face again. He sputtered._

_“Well?”_

_Norrson left his chair and nudged Erik in the chest. “It’s quite alright if you’re shy.”_

_He pressed his boot against broken ribs, deliberately stepping on bone as if walking over autumn twigs. “Anyone would be with a face like yours.”_

_Then, unable to hold his tongue, Erik wheezed out, “Shut up.”_

_Norrson kicked him in the gut. He looked at the wincing soldier. “Grab the poker. It should be warmed up by now. I’m sure our rude friend’s feeling cold.”_

* * *

“It’s all right,” the daroga said, “Erik, it’s me, it’s only me.”

The Frenchman fidgeted in the master’s grip, low moans in his bandaged throat as he- perhaps in dreams- tried to roll away. And weak as he was, he could only inch ever slightly on the sheets. The servant knelt by the foot of the bed, watching while his master attempted to lift the wounded man up. Abed readied the basin and the soaked washcloth.

“Abed,” the daroga said, “help me get him on his side.”

The servant answered his call, hurrying to grab Erik’s shoulders as the two gently flipped him from his back. Spots of blood dotted the sheets beneath, telling Abed he would need to wash Erik’s bedsheets once more, for he’d bled through yet again. 

“The physician said he’s recovering.” The master began unwinding the dressings around their friend, fingers surprisingly nimble as he worked. “Barely, but so long as we keep him clean- he should live.”

Abed nodded. He remembered the physician’s words from last night, but now all he could recall was the little Sultana’s face. She had watched the man treat Erik with an eagerness that set Abed on edge. Her concern could never be simple.

What she showed for Erik, he could only liken to an affection halfway between mourning an injured pet and musing on what _else_ could be done to a dying bug. Her lovely eyes had lit up when she saw the mess of stitches he’d become, and at some point- Abed was sure- she had tried to touch his wounds. But she’d stopped herself before those fingers could land, perhaps because she was unsure which part fascinated her most.

The English whip had cut deep, leaving Erik’s back carved like ornate wood. Abed had shivered from fear. The Sultana had shivered from something else.

“He’s been waking for minutes at a time,” the daroga went on, perhaps thinking Abed had dozed through the night before, “so we can expect him to stay conscious longer soon. And-”

He trailed off, green gaze stunned as it fell on the mark printed upon the magician’s shoulder blade. Abed squinted. He held his breath. Like the master, he saw the nature of that wound for the very first time. He’d thought it another burn at first, webbed by the blood from lacerations nearby. What they thought were two wounds was in fact one. Now that the cuts bled less, it was easier to distinguish burn from lash.

It was a Roman letter, meaningless in Abed’s eyes, but burnt into Erik’s flesh nonetheless. It was a brand, meant for beasts of burden. 

“Bring the cloth here,” the daroga ordered, voice thick.

He placed his fingertips against the puckered skin, mindful as if afraid it would burn himself. Abed went back for the basin as Erik stirred. The master bent down, and in the magician’s ear, said, “You’re home now, with me- they’ll never touch you again.”

* * *

The vizier’s son came calling at noon, as did several other men at the Shah’s behest. They were livid. And Nadir was unsurprised. Abed had informed him with pieces of gossip from the serving staff. The Shah was most displeased that the Sultana had gone behind his back and he seemed to blame the chief of police more than his beloved wife. He had many wives, but the “little” Sultana- as they all called her- was his most cherished. 

She was a flower in bloom, easily the most beautiful face the rosy court had seen in years. She was a rare spark of fire in the sea, and the Shah had been in thrall of her since they first met. At seventeen, he could deny her nothing, and at twenty-one, he remained the same.

Nadir knew he would forgive her. Whether or not he’d be so lenient with the daroga was another matter, but he was confident that some part of his majesty was glad the magician had come back. For his trespasses, the daroga was placed under house arrest, his position gone to an underling for the time being. 

And he had refused to let any of their callers see Erik. They knew he was injured, and Nadir intended to make sure that was all they knew. Once they’d left, the sun began to set and he returned to Erik’s side.

If there was one part of the Frenchman that could be considered beautiful, it was his hands- slender fingers and trimmed nails. Those hands were perpetually dancing, for they graced instruments and pens alike. And Erik always had the habit of drawing gestures in the air when he spoke. They were almost as mesmerizing as his voice. 

And now both were gone.

Nadir took Erik’s hand in his own, thumbing at the splints and gauze. His nails had been plucked off, the fingers folded every which way. And as he stared at the chafed wrists, burnt by rope and chain, Nadir wondered if Erik would ever touch a piano again.

If the daroga had gone to the English sooner, then perhaps it would never have come to this. Something twisted within him, an angry sorrow at what transpired. Part of him wanted to leave the magician lying there, to convince his conscience that this was some divine punishment for Erik’s sins. But he could only think, _“he did not deserve this.”_

And the more he thought of Norrson and the magician’s wounds, the more fire boiled in his blood. It would not be long before he could no longer quell the rage. The image of Erik crawling in the dirt played again and again in his head, for it had hurt Nadir then to watch, and it hurt him now to recall. 

It hurt so badly that he did not know what to do.

* * *

Erik slept peacefully through the next two days, thanks to a small dose of morphine in his veins, and for his sake, Abed hoped they were dreamless nights. And the master never returned to his own room. He’d instead brought his pillow to Erik’s bedside and kept vigil in a chair, as if willing the magician well.

Again, they dabbed away the blood and replaced his dressings as instructed. His fever remained high and the breaths still left him in pained heaves, but Erik was recovering at the very least. Though Abed was sure he had a long way to go before he could again be the angel of death.

And it was at this point that it dawned on Abed that Erik was more than a friend to his master. The carriage ride had been proof enough, but now he was sure their friendship was not as simple as he’d thought. It was certainly different than the kinship Abed himself had with the Frenchman.

Perhaps the daroga thought of Erik as a brother. His master had never been a very social man and as far as Abed knew, his brothers- by blood- were dead. Even so, the master looked at Erik as no brother would.

“What is he to you, Master?” Abed asked on that second night.

He served the daroga tea and the master said, “Who?”

“Erik.”

The daroga snorted. “He’s a thorn in my side, that’s what he is.”

* * *

Abed had been tending the garden when the daroga’s voice boomed from inside, “Abed- come!”

The servant dropped the roses in his hand, grazing a finger against a thorn. And sticking that digit into his mouth, he hurried back through the door. Fearing the worst, he came bursting into the guest room.

Erik was on the floor, foot caught in the tangled coverlet and clutching his ribs with shaking arms. Abed would later learn Erik had woken at the crack of dawn. And while the daroga still slept in the chair beside, Erik attempted to leave his bed. His thrashing had sent him crashing to the ground. 

“Erik!” the master cried, now upon his knees. “Erik!”

Abed approached as the daroga pulled Erik into his arms, a plethora of pained gasps from the magician’s lips. Erik’s head fell against the master’s chest, but the daroga’s eyes were below. Abed followed his gaze and found himself staring at the magician’s bandaged waist, a splotch of red spreading across white gauze.

“Abed, fetch a doctor,” the daroga said, “now!”

Numb, Abed nodded, and as he prepared his leave, he saw Erik twist in his master’s embrace, fevered eyes meeting the daroga’s own. 

_“D- daroga,”_ he said in a weak whisper.

“I’m here, you’re with me,” the master said, “don’t talk-”

 _“Did- he hurt you?”_ Erik was mumbling now, raspy breaths that barely passed for words. 

“No- no- he won’t hurt you anymore either-”

_“I won’t let them- hurt you- daroga- I won’t…”_

A flash of pain colored the daroga’s features before he snapped at Abed. “Did you not hear me!? Go!”

“Sorry, Master!”

Abed left, and behind, he heard the daroga mutter to Erik- as the Frenchman drifted off- _“I know you won’t. I know.”_

* * *

It did not take long for news of Erik’s waking to spread. Nadir had hoped to let him convalesce longer because he had little doubt the Shah’s men would come back, one by one, intent on speaking to him. Or rather, interrogate.

After the physician again tended him, Erik slept well into the afternoon. And this time, the daroga stayed wide awake, starting at every little noise heard. When those sunken eyes opened to slits, Nadir leaned in.

“Erik?” he said, a hand on the coverlet’s fold, a hair’s breadth away from the magician’s splinted fingers. “Do you know where you are?”

Erik blinked, one eye still too swollen to open all the way. The other did, and glassy, it drifted from the ceiling to Nadir’s face. He tried to lift a hand, only to have the wrist fall limp.

“Daroga,” the magician croaked. “I-”

His words were seized by a bout of coughs. Nadir placed an arm behind his head, and as gently as he could, pushed Erik up so his lips could meet the cup of water in his free hand. As Nadir set the cup down, Erik leaned into his hold- perhaps unintentionally, that body too broken to protest.

“This is your home. How?”

Before Nadir could answer, Erik laughed, more of a cough than chortle. “No, this is a dream. You’re Norrson. You never run out of boring little tricks! I just won’t wake up then…”

“It’s not a dream, Erik.” Nadir pinched him lightly in the ear. “The Sultana made a trade for you. I’ve brought you back to Tehran, and you should be thankful to live.”

“Then it’s really you… Daroga?”

The Persian nodded. And Erik glared. “Then… you great booby, you went to the English alone? What were you thinking?!”

“Of you.”

Erik clammed up. Softer, he said, “I’m not worth it, you know.”

Nadir wished to scold him for saying such things, for he vehemently disagreed, when Abed entered, forgetting to knock.

“Erik,” the servant said, lighting up, “you’re awake!”

Abed set the daroga’s tea down, and coming to Erik’s side, asked, “How are you feeling? Do you need anything? I thought-”

“Thought I’d die?” the magician teased, “unfortunately for the daroga, I’m quite bad at it.”

“Indeed,” Nadir said with a touch of mock exasperation.

Abed stifled his chuckle. And for a moment, all was as it was. 

* * *

The master had been feeding Erik from a bowl of broth when the vizier arrived at three. Abed had tried to stall him at the door, but his man managed to push the servant aside with an iron grip. In the end, all he could do was announce the vizier’s presence down the hall.

The daroga met them in the sitting room, and after exchanging a quick greeting, bid them to leave. 

“You may stay for dinner if you wish,” he said, face impassive, “but Erik is indisposed. It’d be better for you to come back another time.”

“I know he’s indisposed,” the vizier said, as politely as he could, “I imagine his condition must be quite terrible if even the Sultana does not ask him to appear. But surely he can spare a few words?”

“I’m afraid he can’t.”

“Ah, then we shall have to see.” The vizier stood. “Where are you keeping him?”

The master stepped in front, blocking his path. “I can’t say.”

“Don’t forget,” the vizier told him lowly, “you’re not the daroga at the moment, are you, _Nadir_?”

He placed a hand on Nadir’s shoulder, and reluctant, the master stepped aside, fists curled in. Abed saw a light smirk cross the vizier’s face as he began inspecting each room. It was not long before he found Erik’s, and when he entered, the daroga quickly followed. When the vizier’s man relaxed his grip, Abed slipped away and went in as well. 

Erik was lying against two pillows, face covered with a satin mask Abed had brought from his apartment, and a cushion propping him up. The broth sat unfinished on the table next to his bed. And if he felt any surprise at the vizier’s arrival, none of it showed. He offered a dull greeting.

The vizier returned it and put himself in the master’s chair. “I’m glad to know you’re healing. His majesty was quite worried.”

“I’ll work again in due time. Tell him to stop fretting.”

“We have no doubt you’ll put your talents to use again, but his worries stem from another matter.”

Erik narrowed his eyes. The vizier put a hand on a bandaged forearm, fingers curling around the dressing. 

“Were you worth two prisoners, magician?” the man mused, “or did the major simply fulfill another promise?”

The hand pressed in. Abed saw Erik wince, his frame tensing at the pain. Stunned, the servant looked to his master, hoping the daroga would step in. But the master was as still as wood.

“I don’t follow,” the magician said.

“If you said anything to them- if you betrayed his majesty in any way- confess now and I promise your punishment will be light.”

Erik shut his eyes. Then blinking open, he said quietly, “I told them nothing.”

The vizier darkened. He tightened his grip, as if crunching paper and nothing more. Erik shuddered, a low hiss coming from between clenched teeth.

“Is that so?” the vizier said, “so you simply let these Englishmen torture you for days on end because you’re so _loyal_ to his majesty? And then they suddenly decide to let you go?”

In a cold sweat, Erik did not reply. Scowling, the vizier released him with a rough thrust. “My ears are open if you ever want to tell the truth. I wish you a speedy recovery, Erik.”

As Erik sunk back into his pillows, the vizier cast him a look of disgust and walked out, exchanging a glare with the master on the way. 

“He hurt him,” Abed said to the daroga, fuming within, “Master, why didn’t you stop the vizier?”

Deliberately ignoring Abed’s gaze, the master went to Erik’s side, again taking up that bowl of broth. He spooned a bit and brought it to the magician’s mouth, the latter too sullen to say anything more. 

“The Shah ordered him here,” the master said, “there’s nothing we can do.”

Abed wished to protest, but Erik cut in. “Abed, show the vizier out. I wish to have my meal in peace.”

Abed bowed and left their room, wishing he could say more. He’d forgotten his place in a moment’s rage.

More men filed into the daroga’s home throughout the day, each more clinical than the next. Reluctant, Abed showed them the way to the guest room and stood silently within as they interrogated Erik while the hours drew by. The questions were more or less the same, and it seemed that none believed Erik hadn’t betrayed the Shah. Abed wondered if the questioning was simply a formality. Maybe they had decided Erik was guilty of this nonexistent crime days beforehand.

The magician’s stamina wavered with each man, kept awake only by the sound of their harsh voices. The final interrogator was the least patient, perhaps because he’d hoped for some damning answer before night fell. When he sensed the Frenchman about to fall asleep, he’d struck him in the chin, the only part that mask did not quite reach.

Abed tackled the man, having had quite enough of watching their abuse. 

“He’s not some dog you can kick!” the servant said, quite ready to fight then and there.

“Abed!”

The daroga pulled him back by the collar and shoved him into that chair. Then to the startled man, he said, “It’s time you left. I hope his majesty is satisfied.”

He showed the man out himself and when the master returned, Abed had just finished dabbing the blood from Erik’s newly split lip. The cuts on his mouth had just begun to recover, and now this.

“Erik?” the daroga said.

“He’s asleep,” Abed answered.

The master cast him a tired glance. “Abed, never do such a thing again unless you want to get us all killed.”

“Master, I would never disobey you but I know you wanted to do the same.”

“Abed, don’t argue with me.”

“I’m not, Master! You know it too. They treat him like dirt. They always have. He never betrayed his majesty, even through all this- they should be treating him like a hero, not- not…”

“It can’t be helped,” the daroga sighed, “we’re losing Mohammerah and the court needs men to blame. Erik just happens to be one of them. I’m sure that Englishman is facing repercussions as well.”

Abed glared at the floor. “It has nothing to do with Erik. The Shah knew he was injured and he sent him out anyway.”

The daroga looked down as well, a touch of guilt in his features. “I know.”

* * *

Nadir checked the bathtub. Abed had drawn a warm bath at Erik’s request, the Frenchman sick of being sponged down while he lay cooped in bed. Nadir thought it was a stupid idea- more likely to sting Erik’s wounds than make him better- but Erik was always filled with bad ideas. And he supposed the magician had regained enough strength at this point to stand some water.

Erik’s first conscious days were rather taxing, the Shah’s men calling nearly every hour. But the interrogations had lessened recently, either because the Shah was finally assured of Erik’s loyalty or because the vizier had something else up his sleeve. Nadir was too spent to care.

He went back to the guest room. Upon entry, the magician looked up and said, “Don’t you knock, daroga?”

There was no mask clinging to his face, but Erik had insisted on keeping the bandages around his sunken nose.

“It’s my home, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He stooped and took one of the magician’s arms. Nadir hoisted it around his shoulder and reaching for Erik’s waist, carried the Frenchman out of bed. “And since you’ve taken to ordering _my_ servant around, I’d say you’ve forgotten.”

“Don’t be so stingy, you old fart. I can hardly walk back to my home like this, can I?”

“Knowing you, I have no idea.”

In the washroom, Nadir gingerly lowered Erik into the water, the latter hissing as water met skin. Then Erik sighed, slipping downwards in what Nadir could only assume was delight. 

“You don’t have to watch me, you know,” the Frenchman muttered, “it’s an ugly sight.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Nadir said. He had yet to purge the image of Erik at the English camp. There could be no worse sight in his mind’s eye.

“Suit yourself.”

Nadir poked the water, hesitant to talk. “Erik… why didn’t you betray the Shah?”

“Do you doubt me too, daroga?”

“No.” It was true. Of many things, he doubted Erik. This was not such an instance. “But I know you’re loyal to none. You said so yourself. You have no country, no affinity for the ‘human race’ if I recall.”

Erik turned away.

“Or were you only being dramatic?” Nadir asked with some amusement.

“I’m not loyal to Persia. I could care less who wins the war.” Erik leaned against the tub’s edge, bits of hair touching Nadir’s hand. “But his majesty did take me in. Used me for skills… not my face. He and the Sultana… I could never betray them- what reason have I to? Besides, it would bring shame to _your_ name, I’m sure. You brought me here.”

“So you would never betray me as well?”

“You make it sound disgusting, the way you say it.” Erik scoffed. “But you and Abed, I suppose…”

Light snoring told Nadir that Erik had dozed off once more. His fingers brushed Erik’s head, gentle as he stroked the healing bumps.

“You stupid man,” he mumbled, “how have you survived until now?”

* * *

The Sultana had sent them a wheelchair, and though Erik had protested its use, Abed and the master managed to carry him to it nonetheless. His feet had not yet recovered and the rest of him remained too weak for anything more than a few short steps. The Sultana wished to see him back in court, the physician having reported his progress. The daroga was quite opposed to the idea, but Erik took it in stride, confident that he could amuse the Sultana with some card trick if need be.

But what seemed to worry the master most of all was the fact that he could only send Abed along with Erik. The daroga was still forbidden from leaving his property.

When they arrived, Abed wheeled the magician in, Erik in a loose black robe and his face hidden behind a veiled mask. All eyes were on them, and the unease made Abed bow his head. But Erik was undeterred by any stares and whispers.

Before the young Shah’s throne, Erik stepped off the wheelchair and bowed, dropping to his knee. He looked to the Sultana and did the same.

“Welcome back, magician,” the Shah-in-Shah said.

“Thank you, your majesty.”

Then, wary, the Shah turned Erik over to the little Sultana, the other favorites watching with grim anticipation.

“Did you enjoy my gift, Erik?” she asked.

He nodded, never once meeting her eyes. “The gift of life, yes. Thank you for bringing this humble servant back to court.”

She heard the flit of irony in his voice. Laughing, the Sultana clapped her hands, beckoning the others to join in. Only the Shah did not.

“Now, how are you feeling, my dear Erik?”

“Quite well.”

“Well enough to perform?”

He glanced up. “That would depend on the task. What do you wish of me?”

“I know you’ve been poorly. It’d weigh terribly on my heart to strain you farther. I only want you to stand before me.”

Abed caught a flash of hesitance in the Frenchman’s eyes. But Erik obeyed, with a soft, “Thy wish is my command.”

The Sultana gestured for a eunuch and whispered into the man’s ear. Nodding, he bowed and approached the magician.

“Don’t move, dear Erik,” she said, “I don’t want my magician damaged any more. It cost me so much to save you.”

Erik swallowed, stone still as the eunuch tore his robes apart. Confused, Abed watched as the anxious man threw the garb upon the floor, exposing those bandages for all to see. Erik was covered in gauze from the neck down, no part of free skin to show.

“And what is the… purpose of this?” Erik asked lowly, “concern for my health?”

“Oh, but of course!”

The eunuch unsheathed a dagger.

Eyes narrowed, Erik said, “My sultana, do you wish for this man to die?”

The eunuch froze, blanching from fear. But the Sultana shook her head and said, “No. Just stay where you are, Erik. You need not bother with him.”

She waved a hand the eunuch’s way. And nodding, he placed the blade against a gauze fold. He cut and the bandage fell. Abed, with the rest present, watched the eunuch cut and cut until the dressings fell apart, a pile of white at Erik’s feet.

Abed noticed a few heads turn away. Truth be told, he wished to as well. Even the Shah paled slightly. But the Sultana leaned forward, enamoured with the sight of her magician’s ruined body. Stitched gashes webbed over scars, like black snakes coiling over ashen skin, puckered burns and yellowed bruises bridging the spaces between. The flesh was uneven against jutting bone, like ripped parchment barely stretched over broken twigs. 

It was the body of a man who’d been broken thrice over. And the Sultana savored every glance. 

To the Shah, she said, “Look, my lord, what our magician has endured for you.”

His majesty nodded, but said no more. There was an air of shock about their audience, for this was the most mortal Erik had ever seemed. And again, Abed fought to remember his place. This humiliation was too much for him to bear and he imagined the hot shame was twofold for Erik. But as the master had said, there was nothing he could do.

And then, the eunuch prodded him with that dagger, as if parading a slab of meat for all to see. He slammed the hilt into the magician’s middle, and Erik stumbled, refusing to keel. He stayed standing while the dagger tickled the sutures along his chest, breaking stitches to let blood flow. The court watched, perhaps less fascinated with the gory display and more with the Sultana’s reaction. Abed felt a twinge of disgust when he saw her smile, pure admiration upon her face. He could not fathom the purpose for this torture. He surmised that it wasn’t torture to the Sultana.

It was not even a game. It was just an amusement to observe. She had regained her toy and now she wanted to make the most of him. When a doll broke, it would be thrown out and replaced with something new. She did not wish to leave her doll. Instead, she pondered what to do with its busted limbs, for because it was broken, it would not matter if she twisted and bent it even more. Dolls were made to be played with. And the dolls of pretty children looked all the more fun.

“That’s enough,” the Shah said.

Erik swayed, torso tangled with rivulets of red. But he did not fall. And at the Shah’s pressing, the Sultana snapped out of her stupor. She ordered the physician forward and had him tend Erik on the spot, those in attendance having no choice but to keep watching.

Once her doll was again bandaged up, the Sultana lovingly dismissed Erik for the day. The magician bowed and took his leave. Abed went to meet him when Erik’s foot touched the wheelchair. The magician collapsed, shoulder smashing the floor as he cried out.

“Erik!” the servant screamed.

He rushed to Erik’s side, calling his name again and again as he pulled the Frenchman’s head into his lap. In his panic, Abed no longer cared for the eyes upon them. He held onto Erik as the court watched, promising to take him straight home.

Blood stained gauze. And the Sultana dug nails into her hand.

* * *

Erik had returned in a litter the night before, newly injured and unconscious once more. When he awoke, he refused to tell Nadir how the court had received him. It was only through Abed’s report that the daroga learned of what took place. Then he _saw red_. But Nadir forced himself calm, accepting that at least the Shah would stop doubting Erik’s loyalty after this stunt. And ultimately, the daroga’s emotions were more akin to sorrow than anger.

He’d thought the magician would be safe once he was out of Norrson’s hands. But as of yet, he’d only been passed from one tormenter to the next. And Nadir felt monumentally small, for he could do so little, if anything at all, to protect the man.

Perhaps he could not prevent any new ideas from entering the Sultana’s head, but at the very least, he could attempt to lift Erik’s spirits. Nadir opened his drawer, pushing folded shirts aside as he rummaged for the parcel he’d nearly forgotten.

He recalled his own silly plan before Mohammerah. Erik might dismiss it as pure stupidity, but Nadir would rather have him fume in distaste over this than continue to wade in self-loathing.

Tucking the parcel beneath his arm, Nadir left his room and called for Abed.

* * *

“Well, what is it, you great booby?” 

Erik would have crossed his arms if it didn’t hurt so much to do so. He cocked his head as Nadir finally returned after a day spent on some unknown errand (which he refused to divulge). Even Abed had been busy with his master’s tasks, leaving Erik to a day of solitude and boredom-- the former, he was quite accustomed, but the latter, he could not stand. 

The daroga entered, leaving the door open as he crossed to the bedside, face sculpted by warm candlelight. He set the candle down, and something behind his back, took his seat in that old chair.

“I see that you’re irritable,” the Persian mused, “if you wish me to leave, I shall-”

Bandaged fingers groped for him in the dark. “No! Have pity, Daroga- there’s only so much time a man can spend staring at nothing.”

“Fine. I’ll stay because I pity you.”

Erik was about to insult him in return when a soft mewl caught his attention. He looked down. A cat had crossed the threshold. Startled, he stared as it hopped onto the bed, a bob of sleek fur and blue eyes.

“What-” Nadir glowered at the doorway. “Abed, did you let this in!?”

“It’s his favorite, Master!”

“The last thing he needs is some animal to get fur all over his wounds!”

The cat nuzzled the magician’s thigh, and crawling onto him, rested against his chest. Momentarily lost in delight, Erik pressed his head against its crown, sighing as it purred. “Dear girl, why did Abed bring you in?”

“Because-”

Abed walked in, a tray in his arms. Upon it, a cake rested on its stand. The dessert was molded into a rectangle and layered with cream, uneven patches of marzipan and vanilla poking through. The cat slipped away, coming to rest at Erik’s side, eyes bulging at the cake’s arrival, much to Nadir’s chagrin.

“It’s a gift.” Abed placed the tray on Erik’s lap, just above the blanket. 

The servant scooped the cat into his arms, ignoring its hisses, and grinned. Confused, Erik stared at the cake, a boggling “why?” dying in his mouth. Framed by cherries, two candles stood in the icing, tiny flames flickering with the night breeze, and in their haloed light, he could see the thin words: _j_ _oyeux anniversaire_. 

He blinked. Erik looked to the daroga, expecting an explanation but all Nadir did was smile, a trace of smugness there.

“Daroga, what is this?”

“Happy birthday, Erik.” He scratched his chin. “We would sing to you- that’s what you do in France, isn’t it?- but I knew you would hate our voices.”

“He did call my singing “manageable” once,” Abed added, “so that’s not entirely fair, Master.”

“Oh really? Erik, you said my singing was best left for the washroom.”

Their words entered Erik’s ears on one side and left the other. Heart pounding, he clutched the covers and said, “I- I don’t understand. It’s not my…”

“Then when is it?” Nadir said.

He no longer remembered. Erik shook his head.

“Then it might as well be tonight.”

Erik stared at the daroga, then Abed, unsure if his vision had started to blur. There was a lump in his throat, he was certain.

“My birth is not an occasion for celebration.”

He remembered a woman’s face, beautiful as she stared at her son in horror. A kiss, he had begged, a kiss. And she’d turned away. _Maman-_

“Erik, I thought you dead not so long ago,” Nadir said, earnest, “if fate allowed you to live, then that’s enough cause for celebration to me.”

The daroga pointed at the cake. “Abed spent all day on this. He’s no cook, as you know-”

“Thank you, Master.”

“-So make your wish. Then we may eat this cake and congratulate my servant together.”

Abed blushed lightly. Afraid that he would break into tears if his eyes stayed open any longer, Erik shut them. Perhaps he would open them and find himself back in his mother’s attic or Norrson’s tent, or worse yet, the sideshow-

But nothing of the sort happened. He followed Nadir’s instructions and when he opened his eyes, the daroga and his servant were still here, looking on with cheer. A small smile on his lips, Erik gulped and blew the candles out.

He reached for the knife, but found it hard to grip with his bound hands. Nadir’s hand closed over his own, and fingers entwined, the daroga guided his hand over the handle. They pressed the blade into the cake together and the servant clapped when the first slice was made.

Then the cat escaped and landed in the middle of Erik’s cake, splashing bits of dessert on all three men. 

“No!” Abed yelped, mortified, “I can fix this!”

He scooped bits of cake into his hand, eyes bulging at the mess it’d become. Nadir rubbed a hand over his eyes, muttering, “Of course it would end like this.”

And Erik laughed, ribs smarting as the chuckles rumbled from his throat. Nadir’s finger flicked over the bandage across his nonexistent nose.

“What are you laughing at, you humbug!? You have cream all over your face.”

“Daroga-”

Nadir stuck a cherry to that spot of cream, and gravely, said, “There, now you have a nose. Happy birthday.”

Once it occurred to him that the daroga had made a joke, Erik plucked the cherry off and said in awe, “I had no idea you possessed a sense of humor, Daroga! This night is full of surprises.”

“You-”

“Master, there’s another surprise, isn’t there?” Abed said.

Curiosity piqued, Erik watched as Nadir reached behind his back, anxiety written across his face. He’d never seen the daroga quite so nervous before.

“Happy birthday, Erik,” the man said softly.

Nadir placed a parcel in his lap, tightly bound in plain brown. Then he pulled at the string holding it together and let it unravel. Erik cleared the paper himself, and staring down, met the sight of a box, lined with gold and painted with cherry blossoms, a style not unlike Japanese ink.

He thought it a music box, but when he clicked it open, no sound came out. Instead, he found himself looking at a line of bundled charcoal and conte, colored lead filling the barrier in between. Tissue paper sat beneath it all.

“I know music isn’t all you do,” Nadir said, “once your hands are healed, I hope these will be of use for your drawings.”

That lump returned. The world blurred once more, and Erik was certain his eyes were glistening wet. 

“I know you can do better on your own,” the daroga rambled, “you must think me a fool, but I do hope-”

“Thank you.” Erik closed the box, savoring the texture of its lid. “Daroga, it’s perfect.”

He looked from master to servant, and to both, said, “Thank you.”

A breath of relief escaped Nadir and as the daroga returned his smile, Abed eagerly said, “What did you think of the cake?”

Erik licked the bits that had spilled near his mouth. “Delicious.”

* * *

_Watching that young man cradle her magician, Sultana leaned towards the nearest eunuch and asked, “Who is that?”_

_“The Daroga’s manservant.”_

_“Does he have a name?”_

_“Abed.”_

_“Ah.” She grinned, a smile in her eyes as the gears churned in her head. “Abed.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it to the end! Again, feel free to kudos/comment! Hope that was some satisfactory H/C
> 
> For anyone willing to answer, I have a few small questions- would you prefer the Erik/Persian tag or Erik & Persian tag for this fic? I'm not sure myself now (it does take place before an actual romantic relationship but there are pharoga moments here and there). Will definitely be pharoga down the line in this series though. 
> 
> And would you prefer a different name beside "Nadir" for this Daroga? I just keep using that name because I'm attached to it, but I know this Daroga acts nothing like that Nadir lol. In my head, I've written 600 pharoga fics using that name, but in reality, only like 6 (including unpublished ones) so I'm mostly just fulfilling all of my dreams here (I envisioned this story way back in 2013 but never acted on it until now, believe it or not).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and if you're interested, please kudos/comment!


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